


His Loving Alpha

by okapi



Series: The Fucking Machine 'verse [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alpha Sherlock Holmes, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Consensual Somnophilia, Fisting, Hurt/Comfort, Kinktober 2019, M/M, Omega John Watson, Sex, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Watson's Woes July Writing Prompts 2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-31
Updated: 2019-10-07
Packaged: 2020-07-27 17:33:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20049874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi
Summary: Chapter 1. After a case leaves John injured.Chapter 2. The morning after John's injured.Omegaverse. Hurt/Comfort. Alpha!Sherlock/Omega!John. The Fucking Machine 'verse.





	1. Night of

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was written for the DW 2019 Watson's Woes July Prompt #30: Hurt's Over, Time to Comfort: Watson's been whumped (off-screen). How does Holmes and/or another take care of the situation afterward?

No broken bones.

It could’ve been worse. It could’ve been much worse.

Sherlock tapped his mobile, then laid it in the drawer of the bedside table and quietly shut the drawer.

The light from the mobile screen was too garish. Sherlock didn’t want John to wake to an eerie manufactured glow bathing Sherlock’s already admittedly extraterrestrial-looking facial features.

But Sherlock did want light. He wanted to watch John sleep, to observe the rise and fall of his chest, to be reassured that John was still alive and that their most recent adventure, nightmare and case, was over.

Sherlock eased from the bed and found a candle and lit it.

That was all right, a soft, gentle light that would not disturb John if he were to open his eyes.

Sherlock studied John’s face.

It could’ve been worse. It could’ve been much worse. Sherlock had visited far too many crime scenes to be ignorant of the horrors that could befall Omegas. And John, well, John had always known. He didn’t have the luxury of not knowing.

Sherlock circled the bed and took up his original place as the big spoon, the big, anxious, hovering Alpha spoon.

John had refused the pain meds, but he might wake and want them. They were on top of the bedside table with an empty glass and a carafe of water.

Just in case.

The bruises would heal. No broken bones. No permanent damage.

Sherlock noted John’s distress before John’s body even stirred. That was part of their unusual bond, the one Stamford had been studying, that John’s fear made Sherlock ill.

Sherlock fought the tiny tendril of nausea creeping up his throat as he inched closer and slipped his arm under John’s arm. He took John’s hand in his and laid them both atop John’s heart, their fingers twined.

With the length of his body pressed to John’s, Sherlock began to lick at the skin which covered John’s intact bonding gland. Sherlock licked like an animal, that is, with a regular, soothing, unflagging rhythm, all about the spot.

The nausea faded, and then John murmured,

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock hummed. Though he could not smell it himself, his scent had to be thick as smoke; after all, it was his bedroom and he was a big, anxious, hovering Alpha of an injured—but safe and strong and smart and resilient, he reminded himself—Omega.

John grunted.

Sherlock licked up John’s neck and nuzzled just behind his jaw. “Pain?”

John shook his head once, then mumbled, “Christ, it’s okay, Sherlock. I’m okay.” He gave Sherlock’s hand a squeeze. “Your concern is pungent.”

“That’s just the Vindaloo chicken,” said Sherlock with a gentle nip at John’s earlobe.

John giggled, then he sighed. “It could’ve been worse. It could’ve been a lot worse.”

“I know, but still.”

“I know.”

John exhaled.

They stayed like that, breathing, silent, slotted together beneath the bedclothes, for some time, long enough for Sherlock to begin to wonder if John had fallen back asleep, long enough for Sherlock’s other arm, the one curled under his head, to become a bit numb.

Then John took a deep breath and released Sherlock’s hand and awkwardly reached back, pushing beneath Sherlock’s pyjama bottoms and gripping his bare buttock.

Instinctively, Sherlock bent his knee and rolled his hip forward, but he still asked,

“John?”

“I need my Alpha.”

Sherlock’s snort had nothing to do with derision or mirth. It was a feral snort. He felt John’s full-body shudder by way of reply.

Sherlock began to roll his hips and gently grind upon John while John continued to squeeze his buttock and hum encouragement.

John’s scent changed.

Sherlock’s body responded at once. With quick movements, he yanked down the back of John’s pants and the front of his own pyjama bottoms. Then he clumsily guided his stiff, dry prick along the valley of John’s cleft.

Sherlock lifted his torso slightly, waiting for full sensation to return to the one arm while he used the other to help John peel his vest off. Sherlock’s lower half kept up its rocking.

John took his pants off, giving Sherlock time to get rid of his pyjama bottoms and find the lubricant.

“Oh, God,” moaned John. He’d walked around the bed to watch Sherlock, sitting on the edge, slicking his prick.

Sherlock made certain to put on a good show, sliding his fist slowly up and down, applying so much lubricant that his shaft positively drooled. The display was to reassure the Omega that not only would his cunt would be stretched to perfection by one of the most well-endowed Alphas in the city, if not the world, but that it would be a pleasure, pure pleasure, even outside of a heat.

And it was working. Even by the dim candlelight, Sherlock could see John’s eyes dilate.

Sherlock scanned John’s bruised body, determining just how to go about it without hurting John further.

“Let me sink down on you,” said John, answering Sherlock’s unspoken question. He stepped forward, then placed Sherlock’s hand on his waist. “No kissing on the left side.” He made a gesture about his face. “The left side here, too, bore the brunt of it.” He waved at his torso.

Sherlock nodded and pressed a tender kiss to the right corner of John’s mouth as John crawled onto the bed, straddling Sherlock and positioning his cunt over the weeping tip of Sherlock’s prick.

John sank very slowly, testing his own and Sherlock’s patience.

Sherlock could feel John’s thighs trembling at the strain, but he dared not move his hands until John had given some sign. Or at least until John was fully sheathed.

At the half-way mark, their eyes met.

“FU-U-UCK!” they said, each smiling and drawing the word out several syllables.

“Every time Sherlock I’m surprised by it,” John confessed. “You scratch an itch I almost, almost, forget I have.”

“Like this?” Sherlock rolled his hips.

“YES!” John’s hand had been resting lightly on Sherlock’s shoulders, but he curled them ‘round Sherlock’s neck, then bent his head and licked about the skin covering Sherlock’s bonding gland.

Sherlock wanted so badly to throw John on his back and fuck him senseless. He would, of course, soon, but not tonight. Tonight, they would take it easy.

Sherlock loved John so much, needed him so much, wanted him so much. It was difficult to find words, especially when John was clinching ‘round his prick and sucking, God, open-mouthed sucking at his most sensitive spot.

“John, John, John…”

“Yeah, fuck it.”

With that, John dropped, impaling himself completely on Sherlock’s prick. He pushed Sherlock’s hands down to his hips.

Sherlock gripped them and thrust up, once.

“Too much?”

“No,” breathed John. “But let me kiss you while you fuck me.”

“Pleasure.”

John held Sherlock’s head in his hands and carefully fitted their lips together, so that the left side of Sherlock’s mouth met the right side of his. As soon as the kissing began in earnest, Sherlock resumed his thrusting, so hard and fast that John practically bounced in his lap.

It wasn’t long before Sherlock was pissing stream after stream up into John.

John threw his head back and sighed a satisfied and satisfying Omega sigh.

Immediately, Sherlock wrapped a slicked hand ‘round John’s prick and brought him off.

John extricated himself from Sherlock and crawled onto the bed. He turned and Sherlock idly ran an index finger through the come that was leaking from John’s cunt and the come that was decorating his belly.

“John.”

“Yeah, I know. Me, too, love. So much.”

One corner of Sherlock’s mouth lifted. “You should sleep, John. Sleep is good for recovery.” He rose and left the room, returning with two wet flannels. “Or so I’m told,” he added.

John smiled, but when Sherlock offered him one of the flannels, he just stared at it.

When John looked up, Sherlock was a bit surprised by the heat lingering in John’s gaze.

But he didn’t show it.

Without taking his eyes from John’s, Sherlock hung the flannels on the back of a straight chair.

“Show me,” he said in his most Alpha tone.

John spread his legs and reached down and spread the lips of his cunt and whimpered.

Sherlock bent low and, bracing himself on hands placed on the bed on either side of John, began to eat John out.

John’s moans were all Sherlock’s prick required for a revival of interest.

“Come here. You. Back in my lap.”

He motioned at John, who did as bid and moved around to the edge of the bed; this time he faced away from Sherlock.

“Sit.”

Oh, they were nice and tight! And from this position, Sherlock could stroke John’s prick in time with his own thrusting.

They came together.

Sherlock looked down. “What a lovely arse.”

“Tomorrow,” replied John, yawning.

Sherlock kissed John’s neck. “Does my Omega need another good night fuck?”

John shook his head.

Sherlock cleaned them both, then tucked John in bed. Though finally feeling the effect of the long day on his own person, he waited until he was certain John was asleep before blowing out the candle.

It could’ve been worse. It could’ve been much worse.

No broken bones.

But that didn’t mean John didn’t need his Alpha. Like a cast, Sherlock would be the hard barrier between John and the world, giving him time to heal, protecting him from all slings and arrows until he could face them himself.

And, well, if there were itches that needed to be scratched, then Sherlock would scratch them.

Sherlock smiled as sleep overtook him.


	2. The Morning After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after John's injured. H/C. Consensual somniphilia. Fisting. Vaginal fingering & sex. 
> 
> I didn't plan to update this, but it's Kinktober and the ideas are flowing.
> 
> For Kinktober 2019: Day 10: Bonds (Telepathic and/or Empathic).

Sherlock surfaced from a deep sleep with the dual sensations that his left hand was being severed from his arm at the wrist and that his stomach was in grave and imminent danger of emptying itself of all contents.

“John?” he mumbled.

Sherlock cracked an eye.

Dawn was beginning to break, and enough light had filtered into the bedroom for Sherlock to see John, curled and trembling violently, an arm’s length away from Sherlock on the bed.

A left arm’s length away, to be precise.

His hand, Sherlock realised, was clamped between John’s legs, and his fingers, three of them, he estimated, he tried to move them, but the ribbons of pain shooting up from his wrist forestalled the effort, were inside John.

Sherlock was going to be sick. He forced his attention away from the searing pain in his limb and focused on calming his churning stomach. The first question that popped into head was the one that occurred to all in his situation:

What on earth had he eaten?

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…”

Stupid.

This wasn’t last night’s takeaway. This was John.

“S’okay,” murmured Sherlock.

This was part of their bond, the very unconventional bond that they shared as Alpha and Omega.

Sherlock felt John’s distress. Viscerally. How he felt it even Stamford, who’d been studying their relationship from the beginning, didn’t precisely know. But he did.

And at its peak, as it was now, it was horrible, the worst case of seasickness imaginable.

“I shouldn’t have…”

“S’okay.”

“You’re hurting. I’m hurting you.”

“Nah.”

John gave a strangled cry. Sherlock felt as if he’d been punched in the gut. He bit his lip.

Damn. That’d been the wrong thing to say.

That was the other part of the bond, John’s part.

John knew when Sherlock was lying. Even little white lies. They smelled like smoke, he said.

“Sh-sh-sh,” soothed Sherlock as he tried to gather his wits and see his way through this. “Would you go get a wet flannel?”

“And an ice pack?”

“Yes, perfect.”

Sherlock bit his lip again as John removed his fingers, but there was enough relief in the nausea to allow him to roll onto his side and start to massage his palm and digits.

Three fingers. And they must’ve been inside him for quite a while to achieve this kind of cramping.

“Here,” said John, hurrying back into the room.

The damp cloth felt good. The ice felt even better.

But tasks complete, John’s distress threatened to resurge.

“C’mere.” Sherlock reached for John, snaking his right arm ‘round John’s waist and jerking him close.

John cried out again.

Fuck!

A moment too late, Sherlock remembered John’s injuries of the previous day.

He’d been laying on his right side when they beat him. The left side had taken the worst of it. It was Sherlock’s turn to apologise.

“I’m sorry, John,” he said, adding the truth in the hopes of not making the situation worse. “I forgot.”

“S’all right.”

“You do it,” said Sherlock, turning the flannel and ice pack over to John.

Distraction.

Distraction was the key. If the doctor was occupied, the Omega couldn’t fret.

“What happened, John?”

“I just needed you. Badly. And you were sleeping soundly, deeply. You never sleep like that. Yesterday was a difficult day. You were tired. I didn’t want to disturb you. I ignored it for a while. And then, I got an idea. knew it was wrong. I just thought I could use your hand…”

“My prick…?” Sherlock looked down. His prick was still very much asleep.

Well done, Machine, he thought derisively.

Sherlock pushed up on his right arm. “It’s all right.” He licked at the ridge of John’s shoulder, along the skin that covered John’s intact bonding gland. “It’s more than all right. I’m your Alpha.”

“It doesn’t usually come on that strong outside of heat,” said John, his voice finally losing the plaintive strain of anxiety and shame. “Normally, I would’ve waited…”

“Yesterday was unusual. You were hurt. Naturally, you need your Alpha.” Sherlock resumed his licking. “Your Alpha’s here. And your tending to him so well,” he whispered into John’s skin.

It was the truth. The pain in Sherlock’s hand had dulled to an ache, and the sickness had lifted like a fog.

John abandoned his ministrations and began to rub the side of his face against the side of Sherlock’s.

Up and down. One side, then the other.

Sherlock almost purred.

He liked this. Scenting.

“I’d like to finger you some more, John.”

“Yeah?”

“Mm-hmm. Other hand, though. Get the lube.”

“I don’t think I need…”

“Get the lube.”

It was horribly gratifying to see John scamper.

Three fingers thrusting in and out of John’s cunt made an obscene wet noise that sounded like a symphony.

Leaning on his left forearm, Sherlock lay beside John, whose legs were open, knees bent.

“Such a cunt,” observed Sherlock tenderly.

John smiled and leaned back on his hands and spread his knees wider.

Sherlock slipped a fourth finger in. “You’re going to take the whole hand.”

John turned his head sharply and looked at Sherlock with round eyes that immediately glazed over with lust. “Oh, yeah,” he breathed. “Oh, God, yeah. Sherlock, put your fist in me.”

“Such a slutty little Omega, needing to be filled, needing to be fucked,” cooed Sherlock as he drizzled lubricant on his thumb and knuckles. “Can’t even wait for his Alpha to wake.”

John giggled, then sighed, “I’m sorry, Sherlock.”

“I’m not. Now, take my fist like a good Omega.”

* * *

“Oh, God!”

“Look, John!”

John opened his eyes and bent his head.

Sherlock, for his part, couldn’t stop looking.

His whole hand was inside John, stretching him, filling him.

Sherlock had the irrational urge to take a photograph. It was so erotic, so compelling. He committed the image to his memory instead.

“Such a good Omega. A good, good Omega. Look how good you are. This is how good you are.” Sherlock twisted his hand ever so slightly. “Perfect.”

John whimpered.

Sherlock looked up and saw two tears escape from the creases of John’s eyes and run down his face.

Then Sherlock looked down again.

“I’m going to suck you off, John, just like this.”

“OH!”

Sherlock bent his head and took the whole of John’s Omega prick in his mouth.

John came at once, screaming Sherlock’s name.

Sherlock swallowed and then very carefully began to extricate his hand from John’s cunt.

John collapsed flat on his back. His eyes closed, and he was mumbling and whimpering incoherently while rolling his head and his body in opposite directions, dampening the bedclothes with sweat and lubricant.

“What a wanton mess you are, John.”

“Mm. Omega.”

And finally, finally, Sherlock’s prick woke up.

“I want to fuck you, John.”

“Yes!”

Sherlock eased John onto his right side and slid behind him. Then he raised John’s left leg, bending it at the knee. He rested his hand on one of the few unbruised spots on John’s left side and held his lower half still as he gently nudged his prick into John’s gaping hole.

He was surprised.

“Shit, John! It’s like heat, you’re so loose and wet.”

“You stretched me, you horse-hung bastard, and for once, it wasn’t the donkey knob doing it!”

Sherlock smiled. This was his John. He understood the simpering Omega, but he much preferred the foul-mouthed ex-Army doctor who gave as good as he got.

He began to thrust rather more quickly and more shallow than was his custom. “I just love the feel of it, of you,” he explained. “You know, John, you didn’t do anything wrong. You’re welcome to use me like that. Wake me, don’t wake me, it’s all fine. Take what you need. I’m your Alpha.”

“My loving Alpha.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
